“It’s not hot!” Gabe’s spinning round and round, his arms spread out, his face turned upward, his backpack swinging out behind him.
“Why isn’t it hot?” Whitney asks. “Isn’t it summer here?”
I chuckle. “Summer isn’t quite the same in the Northern part of the country.” It’s been hot in Texas since late March. “Tomorrow’s June, and I think around here, that’s the start of summer, but this probably already feels summery to them.”
“They are spoiled,” Izzy says. “I am so excited for this summer, but do you think Cody will remember me when I get back home?”
Her lesson horse Cody ‘remembers’ anyone who has a treat in their hand. “I’m sure he’ll welcome you back with an eager mouth,” I say.
Izzy scowls. “What if I forget everything?”
“I’m sure you’ll improve a lot, with all the riding we’ll be doing on a ranch,” I say. “Don’t worry.” I press the button on the key fob the rental car company gave me. For what I’m paying to rent it for the summer, this car better make us dinner and wash the dishes, too.
The navy blue Toyota Sienna chimes and the headlights flash.
“A minivan?” Ethan groans like I asked him to buy me tampons at the store. “For the whole summer?”
I can’t quite help my smile. “It was the cheapest option.”
“Liar. You got it to torture me.”
“Gabe needs a DVD player,” I reason. “It makes sense.”
“Well, it won’t change anything. I’m still going to love everything about the next three months. You’ll see.”
I hope he does, as long as he also comes around on the college thing. My kids haven’t had much fun in the past year, and they seem to desperately need this change of pace. I check my watch. “If we leave right now, we should arrive just in time for dinner.”
“Whoa,” Ethan says. “The drive from here takes that long?”
“My cell phone map says it’s about three hours away,” I say. “We’ll be driving through Wyoming for a big chunk of the way.”
“At least it should be a gorgeous drive,” Izzy says. “Did you know that Flaming Gorge is right by the ranch? People travel from all over to see it.”
“I can’t wait to take a quad out there,” Ethan says.
“We don’t even have one, and that’s not why we’re here.” Does he think running a ranch will leave him lots of time for playing around on ATVs? “Stop being ridiculous.”
“Uncle Jed may have had one,” Ethan says. “And if he did, then now we do, too!”
He’s entirely too excited. “Alright, in the car, everybody.” We’re supposed to be here for three months, but you’d think we were moving for years by the way everyone packed. Thank goodness it’s summer, or we’d need a U-Haul just for the winter clothing my little Texas honeys would need.
Even I have to admit the drive out is picturesque. It’s not like I’ve never traveled around the United States before, but this is my first time in Utah, and now that I’m here, surrounded by mountains and crisp, clean air, I feel like it might have been an oversight.
“What’s a Scone Cutter?” Whitney asks, staring at a sign for a restaurant.
No idea. “Do you guys want to find out?”
After a chorus of affirmations, I pull into the drive-thru line. As it turns out, it’s basically a long rectangular dinner roll they slice and stuff with honey butter, or cinnamon butter, or a dozen other options. Except I think the dinner roll may be fried.
“I love these,” Ethan says.
I know that my usually contrary boy is not intentionally loving everything just to irritate me, so I shove my irritation down and try to enjoy his happiness. Still, I can’t keep from pointing out the obvious. “My old sneaker would taste good if I put that much butter on it.”
Ethan shrugs. “You’d better not leave those things lying around.” He winks. “You might be looking for new shoes.”
The other kids are just as energized. I wish my job was even a quarter as enthusiastic about this plan as the kids. Robert was shocked, but he understood my reasons and went to bat for me immediately. Unfortunately, Lance was looking for an excuse to show everyone that I’m not committed, and he didn’t have to look hard with me bailing for the summer.
“He couldn’t call off the vote,” Robert said, “but I wish we could delay it. He’s already grumbling.”
“I will do every single thing I would have done if I’d been in the office,” I promised.
“I know you will,” Robert said.
But we both know working remotely won’t be the same, and there are sure to be communication issues and time change issues and a whole host of other problems. Not to mention, I can hardly schmooze the partners who are on the fence about bringing me in. . .from Utah.
I shove my concerns out of my mind, because there’s absolutely nothing I can do about any of it. I put together two motions and a list of deposition questions on the plane and emailed them to Robert the second we landed.
Take that, naysayers. I’m working on a Sunday, while traveling. So much for saying I won’t get anything done.
Of course, we haven’t even reached the ranch yet, and I have no idea how much time we’re really talking about spending on running it.
As if he can sense my reservations, Ethan says, “It’s going to be fun, Mom, I swear.”
I’m not worried that the kids won’t have a good time, but I don’t tell him that. It will hardly be helpful. The other three are watching The Jetsons on the DVD player. Score one point for the minivan. “I’m so lucky to have an expert at working mountainous cattle ranches in the car.”
“I know you think I won’t be able to do anything,” he says, “but I’m actually really good at mechanical stuff.”
“You are.” He always has been. He started by fixing the other kids’ broken toys as a child, and graduated by junior high to working on project cars with his dad. In the past few years, he’s only improved on a talent that was clearly intuitive from the start. “But sweetheart, your mechanical skill is an extension of your real genius—math.”
His incredulous look is quite familiar.
“You don’t think so?”
“What does math have to do with working on mechanical stuff?”
“It’s the same part of your brain that does both things. Trust me, I know you’re great with engines, but one day you may wish you’d done the legwork with a formal education that will let you apply that same strength to more lucrative things.”
“And by then, it will be too late. The apocalypse will have wiped out all institutions of higher education, rendering self improvement and mental development impossible, a thing of the past, a relic.”
I roll my eyes.
“Then, when the zombies begin their march to decimate the world population, I’ll be unable to stop them, because I won’t understand the finer points of differential equations.” He shakes his head. “Oh boy, will I be sorry then.”
“Very funny,” I say. “Let me know if you still think it’s funny when you’re eating soup from a can—”
“Down by the river?” I’ve missed his crooked smile.
And I miss his dad, from whom he stole that smile. If Nate were here, he’d know how to get through to him. It feels like I’m banging my head against a brick wall. A dimpled, blue-eyed, fairly athletic brick wall, with beautiful, albeit too long, hair.
Once we hit the easy-to-navigate state highways, I trade places with him and get back to work.
“Do you really need to do that today?” Ethan asks. “It’s a Sunday.”
“It is,” I say. “But I have no idea how much work we’ll be doing the rest of the week, or when I’ll have time. I promised I’d still bill fifty hours a week, even from the ranch. It’s going to be really hard to do that while watching four children and doing whatever else is required.”
I don’t mention that our take-out options will be nonexistent, which means we’ll be cooking a lot more. Or that I have no idea whether this place will have a dishwasher, or trash service, or even how consistent the internet will be. That’s my biggest fear, right there. What if there’s no broadband? Reviewing all the documents the file clerks scan in without decent internet will easily take me twice as long.
Just as I’m finishing up a memo for Jim, my phone rings. “I’m surprised I have service out here.” I’m not sure I recognize the number, but with all the details I rushed to finalize, I can’t really screen my calls. “Hello?”
“Abby?”
“Hey! Long time, Gus! How are you doing?” He’s finally called me back, hallelujah. I walk him through our problem, including how Ethan flipped out and threw his applications away in his grief. I forge ahead, even when Ethan stiffens. He has no one to blame but himself. He did freak out, and I’m positive it’s because of what happened to Nate.
“Wow, I can’t believe he. . . I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“I swear that’s the only reason I’m asking for a favor—extenuating circumstances. Obviously I know that he’s way past the deadline for admission.”
“The thing is, I’m not sure I can really help,” Gus says. “I mean, I could probably get him on the waitlist, if his test scores and GPA are good enough.”
“He got a 1490 on the SAT,” I say. “He had a perfect score on the math, and he has mostly As. He did end up with a few Bs, but they’re all in honors classes at least. His one C was in sophomore English.”
“That teacher hated me,” Ethan grumbles.
“Losing his dad was rough, Gus. I’m not going to lie. I didn’t support him as well as I should have, either. If there is anything you can do, I’d be eternally grateful.”
“Like I said, I can’t promise anything, but send me his stuff and I’ll do my best.”
Better than I hoped for, honestly. I’d practically resigned myself to the fact that he’d be starting his post-secondary education at a community college. “Thanks.”
I’m not sure whether he hangs up, or whether our reception cuts out, but either way, it was the call I’d been hoping to receive. It’s the reason we’re on our way here—to try and improve the future for my child, to get his motivation back. I’d do most anything, adjust most any plan, repair issues on the fly, and work into the wee hours of the night to do that.
But with the packing for a long trip last minute, and with the time it took to prepare to leave the office for months, I didn’t sleep much last night. I suppose that’s why I fall asleep. When Ethan nudges me awake, the sun is already low in the sky. I rub my eyes and look around.
“Manila town limits,” a sign says. “Population 365.”
“Whoa,” Gabe says. “That’s a lot.”
I suppress my laugh.
“It’s a lot of days,” Ethan says. “It would be a lot of skittles. But as far as people living in a town go, three hundred and sixty-five is pretty small, buddy.”
He’s right. It is small. Smaller than I realized.
But I can do anything for one summer, right?
“I’m hungry,” Gabe says. “Are we almost there?”
“We’re close,” I say. “Really close.” Although, I’m not sure what kind of dining options there will be at the actual farmhouse—since it’s been uninhabited for three weeks. When Mr. Swift overnighted me the key, I didn’t think to check in with him on the state of the premises. It all happened too quickly for better planning.
The word ‘market’ catches my eye and I point. “We should probably try and buy some groceries. At least some milk and cereal and bread.”
“Where?” Ethan glances over at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Pull in there.” I’m already pointing, but I wiggle my hand around so he notices.
“Mom, you’re clearly still tired. That’s a hardware store.” Ethan scoffs. “See? True Value.”
“And it says ‘market’ below it.” I slug him on the shoulder. “That’s their grocery store, I’d bet money on it. A town of under 400 wouldn’t support a bigger one.”
His skepticism remains, but he does as I ask and parks in front.
All the kids pour out of the car. It’s times like this, when we’ve been cooped up inside a moving vehicle for three hours, that it feels like I have more than four children. “Guys, I’m going to pick up some stuff I think we may need.” I drop my voice, but make sure Izzy and Ethan are listening. “Why don’t you see if there’s a bathroom and make sure the little ones go?” The best thing in my life is having older children. It makes caring for the younger ones so much more manageable.
Ethan and Izzy nod, far less peppy than they were three hours ago, which makes sense, as it’s eight-thirty in Houston, and we all woke up at five this morning.
“Mom,” Izzy says. “Don’t go crazy. That car’s already packed like Gabe’s lunch box.”
My kids pack their own lunches for school, and Gabe has a tendency to get carried away. Like, most mornings he almost can’t close his zipper. “I’ll be mindful.” But in a new place, with four kids to care for, I’d be remiss if I didn’t get enough for us to eat. My phone says we’re still twenty minutes away. It’s not going to be a quick jaunt into town, even for groceries from a hardware store.
There’s a surprisingly robust selection of food options, thankfully. I mean, all the aisles could fit into the clothing section of an H-E-B, but so could a lot of full grocery stores. By the time I reach the checkout, my cart’s almost full.
“Mom.” Ethan probably says my name more than anyone else, but he has at least a dozen different inflections. This one means, You have lost your mind. Again.
“You’ll be thanking me when we get there and there’s nothing to eat except the squashed fruit snacks at the bottom of Gabe’s bag.” I just hope there’s a functioning refrigerator, or we’re going to be eating a lot of frozen pizzas and toaster strudel in the next few hours.
“I’m not holding all that on my lap,” Ethan says.
“Always the gentleman,” Izzy quips.
Sometimes I’m really proud of her for roasting him. It hasn’t been easy to come after him in the family order—he’s not always the most considerate brother. He loves her, but he’s a little abrasive.
“What I mean is, of course I’ll hold it on my lap, unless you want me to drive,” Ethan says.
And that’s when I’m the most proud of him. He says what he thinks, all the time, but often once he hears the words out loud, he amends his declarations. Not everyone can do that. His dad was like that—he’d admit when he was wrong and acknowledge it publicly.
I pay, and we’re out the door. It takes almost five minutes to get all the kids and all the groceries squeezed into the car, but with the sun setting, I’d rather not try and find a place to buy dinner. Ethan lets me pile him up with stuff, including a rather precarious stack of produce. At least no one argues with me or begs for McDonald’s. With four kids and more than fourteen hours of travel under our belts, it’s a small miracle.
“I’ll hurry,” I promise.
The sun has lit the entire sky an orangey pink by the time we’re cruising down the street off which the ranch is set. Ethan’s so excited that we’re close that he’s belting “On Top of the World” by Imagine Dragons. It’s making it hard to think, much less hear The Jetsons in the back.
“Cut it out,” Izzy says.
He ignores her.
“We’re almost there,” I say.
“Shut up, Ethan!” Whitney throws something—not sure what—that knocks the bag of apples sideways. They roll off Ethan’s lap and spill all over the center console. One rolls down into the floorboard.
“Guys!”
“Sorry, Mom!” Whitney says. “But Ethan won’t shut up and I can’t hear.”
I slow way down so that I can grab the apple. It’s totally unsafe to have anything anywhere near the pedals on the car. I finally end up stopping in the middle of the road while I rummage around for it. I’m lucky this road has no traffic on it.
My hand finally wraps around the shiny, smooth skin. “Ha, ha!” After I sit up again, I look around to make sure it’s clear for me to drive.
There aren’t any other cars, but there is a tall, shirtless man mowing the front lawn of a small white farmhouse. It may not be that warm outside, but his body still glistens with sweat. I can’t look away from the defined pecs, the bunched biceps, and the washboard stomach. Ohmygoodness, I’m too old to go entirely blank when I see someone who’s magazine centerfold hot. I’m sure he’s young enough to be—
But then he looks up, and I realize he’s not young at all. He’s close to my age. My foot slams against the gas pedal and we shoot forward, but he waves in spite of my quick departure. I wonder whether this man who must be a relatively close neighbor could see through the window and might recognize my face. I really hope not.
The sun has dropped so low that there’s barely a golden glow when we crest the ridge and turn into the driveway my map is bleating at me to take, and my heart has finally settled down to a sustainable rate. “I think this is it, guys.”
All four kids sit up and turn toward the ranch. Someone even pauses the stupid Jetsons and eliminates the infernal and obnoxious noise. None of them say a word.
I don’t blame them. Bathed in golden sunset, with a backdrop of some of the prettiest, pine-ringed mountains I’ve ever seen, the whole thing is like a scene right out of a movie. There’s a sprawling farmhouse at the top of the drive, with a smaller, more modest house a few dozen yards to the left of it. Beyond the house, there’s a large brown barn. It looks fifty years old, but I’m sure the harsh winters weather the wood quickly out here. It’s not dilapidated or falling down, so that’s good. Past the barn are two more outbuildings, one of which is a smaller red barn with white trim, and one that looks in this lighting like a metal building. That’s probably the storage building mentioned in the will description.
“Wow,” Whitney says. “It’s so pretty.”
“Yeah, I like that red barn. I call it,” Gabe says.
Ethan laughs. “You can’t call a barn, buddy. Sorry.”
“Why not?” He doesn’t even wait for a reply before asking, “Can I call the animals inside it?”
Izzy rolls her eyes. “You can’t call any of that.”
“What about the little house? No one else will even want that.” Gabe’s voice grows whinier by the minute once we pass seven o’clock. . .Texas time. He’s probably almost at maximum capacity by now.
Uncle Jed must have lived in the nicer house, which means that smaller one probably hasn’t been cared for or cleaned or maintained. “We’ll have to check it out later,” I say. “If it’s as big a mess as I’m worried it might be, no one will want it.”
His little face falls, and it’s so pathetic.
“I’m sorry, bud, but when we get inside, you can call a room. How’s that?”
“Fine.” He presses his nose against the glass, and it’s cooled down enough outside that it fogs up from his breath.
I park in the circular drive that loops right in front of the maroon farmhouse. The maroon paint looks fine, but the white trim is peeling. “That trim would look so much nicer if it were repainted—maybe in navy blue.”
“There’s a chimney,” Izzy says. “I wonder if it’ll be cold enough for a fire.”
“It’s cold enough now,” Whitney says. “Look at the glass.” She points at where Gabe’s breath has fogged it up.
“I doubt it’s cold enough for a fire,” I say.
“Let’s find out.” Ethan opens the door, and cooler air rushes in.
But not cold. Definitely not fire weather.
“Maybe we could light a fire outside,” Ethan says. “Roast some hotdogs and marshmallows.”
“I didn’t buy any of that,” I say. “But we have a whole summer ahead of us. I’m sure we can do it soon enough.”
“This is awesome.” Whitney opens the door.
Gabe shoves past her, knocking two boxes of cereal and a bunch of bananas to the caliche-rock ground. “Sorry.” But he doesn’t slow down. He has a room to claim, after all.
I grab two gallons of milk and my purse and march up the porch steps. I stop dead in my tracks when I hear an unfamiliar low noise.
“Everyone stop,” I say.
The kids freeze, thankfully.
They notice it too. “It’s a dog,” Whitney says.
“A border collie,” I say. “Or at least, I think it is. It’s black and white. I suppose it could be an Australian Shepherd.”
“Is it Uncle Jed’s dog?” Ethan asks.
“Mr. Swift didn’t mention a dog,” I say. “But he didn’t say much about animals other than the cows.”
I set both gallons of already-sweating milk down and rummage around for my key. It takes me a moment to find the large golden key, but now that I have it, it’s time to approach the very unfriendly looking dog.
“I thought Border Collies were nice,” Izzy says. “They’re really common farm dogs.”
“Assume every dog is a threat until you know it,” Ethan says.
“Does anyone have the sandwich meat?” I look around.
Izzy nods. “I think I do. Hang on.” She shifts a few things and then digs in her bags. “Yes.” She tosses it to me.
The dog’s head whips up at the movement, its eyes finally looking interested.
“Is it sick?” Whitney asks. “Why is it just lying there and growling?”
“Maybe it’s sad,” Gabe says. “If it’s Uncle Jed’s dog.”
It took a seven-year-old to figure that out. Now that he’s mentioned it, I’m positive he’s right. “I wonder if anyone has been feeding it.” I crouch down and approach slowly, extending my hand with a few pieces of turkey in it.
The dog begins to growl again.
I pause.
It relaxes and I move closer again.
“Maybe we should get a hotel,” Ethan says. “We can call Mr. Swift in the morning.”
“Let’s see,” I say. “We just need to show it that we’re not scary.” I shift a little closer. “Here you go boy, or girl. We’re the nice family that has come for the summer.”
It lifts its head a little and whimpers. The sound kind of presses on my heart. That’s how I felt after Nate died.
“You’re okay, boy. I swear you are.” I toss the turkey and he snaps it up. “See? Nothing will fix it, but food helps.” In my scariest move yet, I reach out and pat his fluffy head. He whines again, this time for longer. “I’m going to move you over, okay? So that we can go inside.”
He whimpers, but doesn’t object when I shift him over and slide the key into the lock. It turns smoothly, and we’re in. Every single one of my kids crouches down and pats the dog on the head, but he simply drops his face back down over his paws and closes his eyes.
“Is he okay?” Gabe asks.
“I think he’s just sad,” I say. “I’ll make sure to grab some food for him tomorrow. He doesn’t look emaciated, so I bet someone is feeding him, but it can’t hurt.”
Once we’ve determined nothing can be done for the dog this moment, the kids’ enthusiasm about the new place returns. Ethan jogs through the door. “First one in the house!”
Gabe shoots past him like a cockroach fleeing the light. “I call the best room. The best one!”
“You can’t do that,” Whitney says. “It’s not specific enough. You have to see the room, and be standing inside of it, and then say ‘I call this room.’”
In the time we spent on the dog, the sun set and now it’s pitch black. It feels like an eternity of fumbling around with the flashlights on our phones before Izzy finds a light switch, but once it’s on, the children all disappear. Except, instead of hiding, they’re searching. The rest of them may be too old to insist as obnoxiously as Gabe, but picking the best room matters to all of them.
They can’t call the master, because they’ll lose it, but they need to suss out which of the remaining rooms is the best faster than everyone else, or they’ll be stuck. “There are six bedrooms, and only five of us, so don’t stress. You’ll all have a place.”
Luckily the fridge works fine, although judging from the fusty smell, I did not buy nearly enough baking soda. It’s not the only thing that needs to be cleaned, either. The once-cream linoleum counters probably weren’t ever works of art, but now it’s hard to tell what’s stained with dirt that can be removed, and what’s age-stained. I find rags in a drawer near the sink, and the water is on, luckily. I put away the groceries in the mostly bare cabinets, wipe down the counters, and locate the very vintage plates and bowls and utensils. They’re dusty, but once I rinse them off, serviceable.
“Guys, let’s bring our things inside and then eat something.” I preheat the oven. One thing everyone will always eat is frozen pizza. I’ve never had the brand they sold at the hardware store, but how different can frozen pizza really be?
“I want the room with the big bay window,” Izzy says.
“You know what a bay window is?” I’m shocked.
“When I stayed at Elizabeth’s last month, her mom took us to see some model homes.”
“Are they moving?”
Izzy shrugs. “I don’t think so, but her mom loves to look at shiny, new houses.”
“She’d hate this one.” I laugh.
“I love it,” Gabe says. “Look what I found!” He hoists a dead mouse up in the air. “It’s like the coolest stuffed animal I’ve ever seen.”
“Drop that right now,” I say.
“Oh no!” Whitney shrieks. “It’s a mouse! It’s dead!”
Ethan, out of nowhere, slaps it with his hand and sends it flying across the room. My heart feels like it’s going to pound its way out of my chest, and I keep shivering involuntarily, but at least it’s not alive.
Although, where there are dead mice. . .
I make everyone wash their hands, and then we clear the other rooms one by one to ensure no other dead rodents are hiding, waiting to be played with. My appetite’s gone, but everyone else seems perfectly happy to dig into the pizza, which is finally ready. This oven probably needs to be replaced. It’s green inside, which was my first clue, but it takes almost twice as long as the box said it should to cook the pizza, which means it’s probably not heating properly. At least everyone eats it.
And in spite of the depressed dog and the dead mouse, they’re all in good spirits. After dinner, we spend twenty minutes and finally succeed in luring the dog inside.
“What if he’s not housebroken?” Izzy asks.
“I suppose we’ll lure him out the same way.” He’s still lying on the ground, more like a rug than a dog.
“Good thing you got those groceries, Mom,” Ethan says.
He doesn’t often praise me for doing simple things. It feels nice.
“Thanks for dinner,” Whitney says. “I liked the pizza. It tasted like crackers with pizza sauce and cheese.”
I pick up a piece of cold pizza and take a bite. She’s not wrong. The crust does remind me of saltine crackers. “I’m glad you liked it.”
Once the kids have all unpacked their things into blessedly empty dressers, they brush their teeth and head for bed. Not even Ethan argues with me—the beauty of the time change, I suppose. We’re all tired. I’m locking the front door when I see headlights. You’d think the dog would be barking, but he just lies there. “You’re kind of useless,” I mutter.
I peer out the window at the approaching car, watching as it parks in front of the small house. The lights shut off, leaving everything dark, but I’m positive that it’s two men who climb out. My heart’s racing, but I can’t go to sleep knowing there are two intruders right outside.
Who are they, why are they here, and how do I get them to leave?
I consider waking Ethan, because at least he looks like an adult male, but I can’t do it. He’s only seventeen—still a baby. If there’s danger, I won’t send my minor son out to face it. I fumble around on the counter in the dark until I find my cell phone. It only has one bar, and I’m not even sure who I’d call out here. Does 911 work when you’re in the middle of nowhere? What if I lose reception entirely? Every cell in my body screams for me to run and hide, but the mother inside of me keeps me moving.
I force myself to unlock the front door and debate about turning on the porch light. In the end, I decide it’s better to see what I’m dealing with than to try and sneak up on them. After all, what would I do if I did surprise them? Try and punch them?
They’d probably laugh.
When the light flips on, both men swear. They look. . .shocked to see me. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re both in their mid twenties, or possibly early thirties.
I make my voice as loud and as self-assured as I can muster. “I know this place has been vacant, but it’s not any more. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Leave?” one of them asks.
The taller of the two says, “But we live here.”
“Not anymore, you don’t,” I say. “I’m sorry if this is inconvenient, but we’re Jedediah’s relatives and we’re going to be staying here for a while.”
“You don’t want us to help with the ranch anymore?” the tall one asks.
Uh. “You’re ranch hands?” Is that what they’re called? What if that’s an offensive term? “You work here?”
“I’m Kevin,” the taller one says.
“And I’m Kevin’s better-looking brother, Jeff.” The shorter one lifts his hand up to his forehead in some kind of cowboy salute.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say. “I didn’t realize.” Mr. Swift said we couldn’t hire someone to run it for us, but he failed to mention there was already (hopefully) competent help on the premises. “I’ll rest much easier knowing you’re here, actually. Please, carry on. I’m sorry I came out here and fussed.”
“We’ll likely be up before sunrise in the morning to rotate the water and move the cows, but as soon as you’re awake, come find us,” Kevin says. “We’ll be done by lunch time, and happy to show you around a bit.”
What a relief. “Do you know if the dog we found is Jed’s?”
“Roscoe?” Jeff asks. “Yeah, he’s not doing too well.”
He could say that again. “He barely seems to move.”
“We keep putting food out, but he hardly eats it.” He spits. Gross.
“He did eat some turkey from our hands,” I say.
“Maybe he’ll perk up, now that you’re here,” Kevin says. “That’d be great.”
Oh good. Another thing to worry about. “Let’s hope.” I wave. “Sorry for being a little hostile. Have a great night.”
“See you tomorrow.”
As I turn out the porch light and lock up again, I feel pretty foolish. I should’ve known someone would be here. It’s not like three hundred and fifty cows would be fine all by themselves on a ranch for weeks. All in all, this isn’t my dream setup, but at least we have a big old house to ourselves. Six people sharing two bathrooms will be tight, but we’ll survive. We might even look back on it and find it’s just what we needed. I keep seeing little Roscoe in my mind and wondering if that’s how we’ve looked to the rest of the world.
Maybe it’s time for all of us to sit up and start living again.